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LIBRARY 

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IRVINE 


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THE  TOILING   OF   FELIX 
AND   OTHER   POEMS 


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THE  TOILING 
OF  FELIX  Y«Y 
AND  OTHER 
POEJMSYBY 
V4VHENKT 
^Vi\NDYKLV 


Charles  Sc rilne-rs  Sons 
MLDCCCCXVH 


jBr 


Copyright,  1900,  by  Charles  Scribncr's  Sons 


Published,  March,  1900.  Reprinted,  April,  1900; 
IfoTember,  1900;  March,  1901;  July,  190*; 
August,  1903;  October,  1904;  October,  1905; 
June,  1906;  October.  1907;  August.  1908; 
August,  1909;  December,  1910;  November,  1911. 

April,  1914;  October.  ipi7. 


ps 


/N  the  rubbish  heaps  of  the  undent  city  of 
Oxyrhynchus,  near  the  river  Nile,  *.  party 
of  English  Explorers,  in  the  •winter  of  1697, 
discovered  &  fragment  of  &  papyrus  book, 
•written  in  the  Second  or  Third  Century,  And 
hitherto  unknown.  This  single  leaf  contained 
parts  of  seven  short  sentences  of  Christ,  ea.ch 
introduced  by  the  •words,  "Jesus  says:"  It 
is  to  the  fifth  of  these  Sayings  of  Jesus  thai 
the  following  poem  refers. 


CONTENTS 

THE  TOILING  OF  FELIX  Page 

Prelude  3 

Legend  6 

Envoy  24 

VERA  29 

ANOTHER  CHANCE  57 

SEVEN  SMALL  SONGS 

The  Angler's  Reveille  65 

A  Bit  of  Good  Luck  69 

A  Slumber-Song  71 

The  Echo  in  the  Heart  73 

A  November  Daisy  75 

The  River  of  Dreams  77 

The  Ruby-Crowned  Kinglet  85 


THE  TOILING  OF  FELIX 

«•- 

A  LEGEND 

ON  A  NEW  SAYING  OF  JESUS 


PRELUDE 

<•- 

A  LOST  WORD  OF  JESUS 

LJEAR  a  word  that  Jesus  spake 
Eighteen  centuries  ago, 
Where  the  crimson  lilies  blow 
Round  the  blue  Tiberian  lake  : 
There  the  bread  of  life  he  brake, 

Through  the  fields  of  harvest  walking 
With  His  lowly  comrades,  talking 
Of  the  secret  thoughts  that  feed 
Weary  hearts  in  time  of  need. 
Art  thou  hungry  ?     Come  and  take  ; 
Hear  the  word  that  Jesus  spake  : 
'T  is  the  sacrament  of  labour  ;  meat  and  drink 

divinely  blest; 

Friendship's    food,    and    sweet    refreshment ; 
strength  and  courage,  joy  and  rest. 


Yet  this  word  the  Master  said, 

Long  ago  and  far  away, 

Silent  and  forgotten  lay 
Buried  with  the  silent  dead,  — 
Where  the  sands  of  Egypt  spread, 

Sea-like,  tawny  billows  heaping 

Over  ancient  cities  sleeping  ; 
While  the  River  Nile  between 
Rolls  its  summer  flood  of  green, 

Rolls  its  autumn  flood  of  red, — 

There  the  word  the  Master  said, 
Written  on  a  frail  papyrus,  scorched  by  fire, 

wrinkled,  torn, 
Hidden   in    God's   hand,    was   waiting   for  its 

resurrection  morn. 


Hear  the  Master's  risen  word  ! 

Delving  spades  have  set  it  free, — 

Wake  !  the  world  has  need  of  thee, — 
Rise,  and  let  thy  voice  be  heard, 
Like  a  fountain  disinterred, 

Upward  springing,  singing,  sparkling ; 

Through  the  doubtful  shadows  darkling ; 

Till  the  clouds  of  pain  and  rage 

Brooding  o'er  the  toiling  age, 
As  with  rifts  of  light  are  stirred 
By  the  music  of  the  Word ; 
Gospel    for   the    heavy-laden,    answer    to    the 

labourer's  cry  ; 
"Raise  the  stone,  and  thou  shaft  find  Me;  cleave  the 

<wood,  and  there  am  I." 


LEGEND 

<*- 

THE  TOILING  OF  FELIX 


TISTEN,  ye  who  look  for  Jesus,  long  to  see 

Him  close  to  you, 
To  a  legend  of  this  saying  ;  how  one  tried,  and 

found  it  true. 


Born  in  Egypt,  'neath  the  shadow  of  the  crum 
bling  gods  of  night, 

He  forsook  the  ancient  darkness,  turned  his 
young  heart  toward  the  Light. 

Yelix  was  the  name  they  gave  him,  when  his 

faith  was  first  confessed  ; 
But  the  name  was  unavailing,  for  his  life  was 

yet  unblessed. 

Seeking  Christ,  in  vain  he  waited  for  the  vision 

of  the  Lord  ; 
Vainly  pondered   all   the  volumes  where  the 

creeds  of  men  were  stored  ; 


Vainly  shut  himself  in  silence,  keeping   vigil 

night  and  day  ; 
Vainly  haunted   shrines  and   churches  where 

the  Christians  came  to  pray. 

One  by  one  he  dropped  the  duties  of  the  com 
mon  life  of  care  ; 

Broke  the  human  ties  that  bound  him  ;  laid  his 
spirit  waste  and  bare  ; 

Hoping   that    the    Lord   would   enter   to    that 

empty  dwelling-place, 
And    reward   the   loss  of  all  things  with  the 

vision  of  His  face. 

Still  the  blessed  vision  tarried  ;   still  the  light 

was  unrevealed  ; 
Still  the    Master,  dim    and   distant,  kept    His 

countenance  concealed. 

Fainter  grew  the  hope  of  finding,  wearier  grew 

the  fruitless  quest ; 
Prayer,    and    penitence,    and    fasting   gave   no 

comfort,  brought  no  rest. 


In  the  darkness  of  the  temple,  ere  the  lamp  of 

faith  went  out, 
Felix  knelt  before  the  altar  —  lonely,  sad,  and 

full  of  doubt. 

"  Hear  me,  O  thou  mighty  Master,"  from  the 

altar-step  he  cried, 
"  Let  my  one   desire  be  granted,  let  my  hope 

be  satisfied  ! 

"Only  once  I  long  to  see  thee,  in  the  fulness  of 

Thy  grace  : 
Break  the  clouds  that  now  enfold  Thee,  with 

the  sunrise  of  Thy  face  ! 

"  All    that   men   desire    and    treasure    have    I 

counted  loss  for  Thee  ; 
Every  task  have  I  forsaken,  save  this  one  — 

my  Lord  to  see. 

"  Loosed  the  sacred  bands  of  friendship,  soli 
tary  stands  my  heart ; 

Thou  shalt  be  my  sole  companion  when  I  see 
Thee  as  Thou  art. 


"  From  Thy  distant  throne  in  glory,  flash  upon 
my  inward  sight, 

Fill  the  midnight  of  my  spirit  with  the  splen 
dour  of  Thy  light. 

"  All  Thine  other  gifts  and  blessings,  common 

mercies,  I  disown  ; 
Separated  from  my  brothers,  I  would  see  Thy 

face  alone. 

<l  Let  them  toil  and  pray  together,  let  them  win 

earth's  best  reward, 
This  shall  be  my  only  glory — I  alone   have 

seen  the  Lord. 

"  I   have   watched  and    I   have  waited  as  one 

watcheth  for  the  morn  : 
Still  Thou  hidest  in  the  heavens,  still  Thou 

leavest  me  forlorn. 

"Now  I  seek  Thee  in  the  desert,   where   the 

holy  hermits  dwell  ; 
There,  beside  the  saint  Serapion,  I  will  find  a 

lonely  cell. 


"  There  at  last  Thou  wilt  be  gracious  ;  there 
Thy  presence,  long-concealed, 

In  the  solitude  and  silence  to  my  heart  shall 
stand  revealed. 

"  Thou  shalt  come,  at  morn  or  even,  o'er  the 

rolling  waves  of  sand  ; 
I  shall  see  Thee  close  beside  me,  I  shall  touch 

Thy  pierced  hand. 

"  Lo,  Thy  pilgrim  kneels  before  Thee  ;  bless 

my  journey  with  a  word  ; 
Tell  me  now  that,  if  I  follow,  I  shall  find  Thee, 

O  my  Lord  !  " 

Felix  listened  :  through  the  darkness,  like  the 

whispering  of  the  wind, 
Came  a  secret  voice  in  answer  :  "  Seek  aright, 

and  thou  shalt  find." 

Long  and  toilsome  was  his  pathway  through 

the  heavy  land  of  heat, 
Egypt's  blazing  sun  above  him,  blistering  sands 

beneath  his  feet. 


Still  he  plodded  slowly  onward,  step  by  step 

and  mile  by  mile, 
Till  he  reached  the  rugged  mountain,  beetling 

high  above  the  Nile, 

Where  the  birds  of  air  assemble,  once  a  year, 

their  noisy  flocks, 
Then,  departing,  leave  their  sentinel  perched 

among  the  barren  rocks. 

Far  away,  on  wings  of  gladness,  over  land  and 

sea  they  fly ; 
But  the  watcher  on  the  summit  lonely  stands 

against  the  sky. 

There  the  eremite  Serapion  in  a  cave  had  made 

his  bed  ; 
There  the  bands  of  wandering  pilgrims  sought 

his  blessing,  brought  him  bread. 

Month  by  month,  in  deep  seclusion,  hidden  in 

the  rocky  cleft, 
Dv,elt  the  hermit,  fasting,  praying  ;  once  a  year 

the  cave  he  left 


IX 


On  that  day,  one  happy  pilgrim,  chosen  out  of 

all  the  land, 
Won  a  special  sign    of  favour  from  the  holy 

hermit's  hand. 

Underneath  the  narrow  window,  at  the  door 
way  closely  sealed, 

While  the  afterglow  of  sunset  deepened  round 
him,  Felix  kneeled. 

"  Man  of  God,  of  men  most  holy  —  thou  whose 

gifts  cannot  be  priced  !  — 

Grant  me  thy  most  precious  guerdon ;  tell  me 
how  to  find  the  Christ." 

Breathless,  Felix  bowed  and   listened,  but  no 

answering  voice  he  heard  ; 
Darkness  folded,  dumb  and  deathlike,  round  the 

Mountain  of  the  Bird. 

Then  he  said,  "  The  saint  is  silent  —  he  would 

teach  my  soul  to  wait ; 
I  will  tarry  here  in  patience,  like  a  beggar  at 

his  gate." 


\9 


So  the  companies  of  pilgrims,  clambering  up 

the  rocky  stair, 
Found   the  lonely,    voiceless   stranger  by   the 

window,  lost  in  prayer, 

Never  moving  from  his  station,  watching  there 

without  complaint, — 
Soon  they  came  to  call  him  holy,  fed  him  as 

they  fed  the  saint. 

Day  by  day  he  saw  the  sunrise  flood  the  distant 

plain  with  gold, 
While    the    River    Nile    beneath    him,   silvery 

coiling,  seaward  rolled. 

Night  by  night  he  saw  the  planets  range  their 

glittering  court  on  high, 
Saw  the  moon,  with  regal  motion,  mount  her 

throne  and  rule  the  sky. 

Morn  advanced  and  midnight  fled,  in  visionary 

pomp  attired  ; 
Never  morn  and  never  midnight   brought  the 

vision  long-desired. 


Now  at  last  the  day  is  dawning  when  Serapion 

makes  his  gift  ; 
Felix  kneels  before  the  threshold,  hardly  dares 

his  eyes  to  lift. 

Now  the  cavern  door  uncloses,  now  the  saint 

above  him  stands, 
Blesses  him  without  a  word,  and  leaves  a  token 

in  his  hands. 

'T  is  the  guerdon  of  thy  waiting — look  !  thou 
happy  pilgrim,  look  !  — 

Nothing  but  a  tattered  fragment  of  an  old  papy 
rus  book. 

Read  !  perchance  the  clue  to  guide  thee  tangled 

in  the  words  may  lie  : 
"  ^aise  the  stone,  and  thou  shaft  find  Me;  cleave  the 

<wood,  and  there  ami." 

Can  it  be  the  mighty  Master  spake  such  simple 

words  as  these  ? 
Can  it  be  that  men  must  seek   Him,  at  their 

toil,  'mid  rocks  and  trees  ? 


Disappointed,  heavy-hearted,  from  the  Moun- 

tain  of  the  Bird 
Felix    mournfully    descended,  questioning   the 

Master's  word. 

Not  for  him  a  sacred  dwelling,  far  above  the 

haunts  of  men  : 
He  must  turn  his  footsteps  backward  to   the 

common  life  again. 

From   a   quarry    by   the    river,    hollowed   out 

below  the  hills, 
Rose   the  clattering  voice    of  labour,  clanking 

hammers,  clinking  drills. 

Dust,  and  noise,    and   hot   confusion   made  a 

Babel  of  the  spot  : 
There,    among    the    lowliest    workers,    Felix 

sought  and  found  his  lot. 

Now  he  swung  the  ponderous  mallet,  smote 
the  iron  in  the  rock  — 

Muscles  quivering,  tingling,  throbbing  —  blow- 
on  blow  and  shock  on  shock  ; 


Now  he  drove  the  willow  wedges,  wet  them  till 

they  swelled  and  split, 
With  their  silent  strength,  the  fragment  —  sent 

it  thundering  down  the  pit. 

Now  the  groaning  tackle  raised  it ;  now  the  roll 
ers  made  it  slide ; 

Harnessed  men,  like  beasts  of  burden,  drew  it 
to  the  river-side. 

New  the  palm-trees  must  be  riven,  massive 
timbers  hewn  and  dressed  — 

Rafts  to  bear  the  stones  in  safety  on  the  rushing 
river's  breast. 

Axe  and  auger,  saw  and  chisel,  wrought  the  will 

of  man  in  wood  : 
'Mid  the  many-handed  labour  Felix  toiled,  and 

found  it  good. 

Every  day  the   blood   ran   fleeter  through  his 

limbs  and  round  his  heart ; 
Every  night  his  sleep  was  sweeter,  knowing  he 

had  done  his  part. 


Dreams  of  solitary  saintship  faded  from  him; 

but,  instead, 
Came  a  sense  of  daily  comfort,  in  the  toil  lot 

daily  bread. 

Far  away,  across  the  river,  gleamed  the  white 

walls  of  the  town 
Whither  all  the  stones  and  timbers,  day  by  day, 

were  drifted  down. 

There  the  workman  saw  his  labour  taking  form 

and  bearing  fruit, 
Like  a  tree  with  splendid  branches  rising  from  a 

humble  root. 

Looking  at  the  distant  city,  temples,   houses, 

domes,  and  towers, 
Felix  cried  in  exultation :  "  All  the  mighty  work 

is  ours. 

"  Every  mason  in  the  quarry,  every  builder  on 
the  shore, 

Every  chopper  in  the  palm-grove,  every  rafts 
man  at  the  oar  — 


"  Hewing  wood   and   drawing  water,  splitting 

stones  and  cleaving  sod  — 
All  the  dusty  ranks  of  labour,  in  the  regiment 

of  God, 

"  March  together  toward  His  triumph,  do  the 

task  His  hands  prepare : 
Honest  toil   is   holy  service  ;  faithful   work   is 

praise  and  prayer." 

So  through  all  the  heat  and  burden  Felix  felt 

the  sense  of  rest 
Flowing  softly,  like  a  fountain,  deep  within  his 

weary  breast. 

Felt  the  brotherhood  of  labour,  rising  round  him 

like  the  tide, 
Overflow  his  heart,  and  join  him  to  the  workers 

at  his  side. 

Oft  he  cheered   them  with  his   singing   at  the 

breaking  of  the  light, 
Told  them  tales  of   Christ  at  nooning,   taught 

them  words  of  prayer  at  night. 


So    he    felt    the    Master's    presence     drawing 

closer  all  the  while  : 
Though  the  Master's  face  was  hidden,  yet  he 

knew  it  wore  a  smile. 

Once  he  bent  above  a  comrade  fainting  in  the 

mid-day  heat, 
Sheltered  him  with  woven   palm-leaves,   gave 

him  water,  cool  and  sweet. 

Then  it  seemed,  for  one  swift  moment,  secret 

radiance  filled  the  place; 
Underneath   the   green    palm-branches  flashed 

one  look  of  Jesus'  face. 

Once  again,  a  raftsman,  slipping,  plunged  be 
neath  the  stream  and  sank  ; 

Swiftly  Felix  leaped  to  rescue  —  caught  him, 
drew  him  toward  the  bank  — 

Battling  with    the   cruel    river,    using   all    his 

strength  to  save  — 
Did  he  dream  ?  or  was  there  One  beside   him 

walking  on  the  wave  ? 


Now  at  last  the  work  was  ended  ;  grove  de 
serted,  quarry  stilled, 

Felix  journeyed  to  the  city  that  his  hands  had 
helped  to  build. 

In  the  darkness  of  the  temple,  at  the  closing 

hour  of  day, 
Once  again  he  sought  the  altar,  once  again  he 

knelt  to  pray: 

"Hear  me,  O  Thou  hidden  Master;  Thou  hast 

sent  a  word  to  me  ; 
It  is    written  —  Thy   commandment     I    have 

kept  it.     Look  and  see. 

"  Thou  hast  bid  me  leave   the  visions  of  the 

solitary  life  ; 
Bear  my  part  in  human  labour  ;  take  my  share 

in  human  strife. 

"  I  have  done  Thy  bidding,  Master  ;  raised  the 

rock  and  felled  the  tree  ; 
Swung  the  axe  and  plied  the  hammer,  working 

every  day  for  Thee. 


ao 


"  Once  it  seemed  I  saw  Thy  presence  through 
the  bending  palm-leaves  gleam; 

Once  upon  the  flowing  water  —  Nay,  I  know  not 
—  'twas  a  dream  ! 

"  This  I  know :  Thou  hast  been  near  me  :  more 

than  this  I  dare  not  ask. 
Though  I  see  Thee  not,  I  love  Thee.     Let  me 

do  Thy  humblest  task!  " 

Through  the   dimness   of    the   temple    slowly 

dawned  a  mystic  light ; 
There  the  Master   stood  in  glory,  manifest  to 

mortal  sight : 

Hands  that  bore  the  mark  of  labour,  brow  that 

bore  the  print  of  care  ; 
Hands  of  power,  divinely  tender  ;  brow  of  light, 

divinely  fair. 

"  Hearken,  good  and  faithful  servant,  true  dis 
ciple,  loyal  friend  ! 

Thou  hast  followed  Me  and  found  Me  ;  I  will 
keep  thee  to  the  end. 


"  Well   I   know  thy  toil  and   trouble.      Often 

weary,  fainting,  worn, 
I  have  lived  the  life  of  labour,  heavy  burdens  I 

have  borne. 

"  Never  in  a  prince's  palace  have  I  slept  on 
golden  bed, 

Never  in  a  hermit's  cavern  have  I  eaten  un 
earned  bread. 

"Born  within  a  lowly  stable,  where  the  cattle 

round  Me  stood, 
Trained  a  carpenter  in  Nazareth,  I  have  toiled, 

and  found  it  good. 

"  They  who   tread   the   path  of  labour  follow 

where  My  feet  have  trod ; 
They  who  work  without  complaining  do   the 

holy  will  of  God. 

'*  Where  the  many  toil   together,   there   am   I 

among  My  own  ; 
Where  the  tired  workman  sleepeth,  there  am  1 

with  him  alone. 


«2 


"  I,  the  peace  that  passeth  knowledge,  dwell 
amid  the  daily  strife  ; 

I,  the  bread  of  heaven,  am  broken  in  the  sacra 
ment  of  life. 

' '  Every  task,  however  simple,  sets  the  soul  that 

does  it  free ; 
Every  deed  of  love  and  mercy,  done  to  man,  is 

done  to  Me. 

"  Thou  hast  learned  the  peaceful  secret ;  thou 

hast  come  to  Me  for  rest ; 
With  thy  burden,  in  thy  labour,  thou  art  Felix, 

doubly  blest. 

"  Nevermore  thou  needest  seek  Me  ;  I  am  with 

thee  everywhere  ; 
Raise  the  stone,  and  thou  shalt  find  Me  ;  cleave 

the  wood,  and  I  am  there." 


ENVOY 

<*K 

THE  GOSPEL  OF  LABOUR 


legend  of  Felix  is  ended,  the  toiling  ot 

Felix  is  done  ; 
The  Master  has  paid  him  his  wages,  the  goal  of 

his  journey  is  won  ; 
He  rests,  but  he  never  is  idle  ;  a  thousand  years 

pass  like  a  day, 
In   the   glad   surprise   of  that  Paradise   where 

work  is  sweeter  than  play. 

But  I  think  the  King  of  that  country  comes  out 

from  his  tireless  host, 
And  walks  in  this  world  of  the  weary,  as  if  He 

loved  it  the  most  ; 
For  here  in  the  dusty  confusion,  with  eyes  that 

are  heavy  and  dim, 
He   meets   again   the   labouring  men   who  are 

looking  and  longing  for  Him. 


He  cancels  the  curse  of  Eden,  and  brings  them 

a  blessing  instead : 
Blessed  are  they  that  labour,  for  Jesus  partakes 

of  their  bread. 
He  puts  His  hand  to  their  burdens,  He  enters 

their  homes  at  night : 
Who  does  his  best  shall  have  as  a  guest  the 

Master  of  life  and  of  light. 

And  courage  will  come  with  His  presence,  and 

patience  return  at  His  touch, 
And  manifold  sins  be  forgiven  to  those  who  love 

Him  much  ; 
And  the  cries  of  envy  and  anger  will  change  to 

the  songs  of  cheer, 
For  the  toiling  age  will  forget  its  rage  "when  the 

Prince  of  Peace  draws  near. 


This  is  the  gospel  of  labour  —  ring  it,  ye  bells  of 
the  kirk  — 

The  Lord  of  Love  came  down  from  above,  to 
live  with  the  men  who  work. 

This  is  the  rose  that  He  planted,  here  in  the 
thorn-cursed  soil  — 

Heaven  is  blest  with  perfect  rest,  but  the  bless 
ing  of  Earth  is  toil. 


afl 


VERA 

AN  IDYLL 

OF  THE  MYSTERY  OF  SOUND 


VERA 

I 

A  SILENT  world,  — yet  full  of  vital  joy 

Uttered  in  movements  manifold,  and  swift 
Clear   smiles  that   flashed   across   the   face   of 

things 

Like  sudden  sunbeams  of  divine  delight, — 
A  world  of  many  sorrows  too,  made  known 
In   fading  flowers,  and  withering  leaves,   and 

dark 

Tear-laden  clouds,  and  tearless,  clinging  mists 
That  hung  above  the  earth  too  sad  to  weep,  — 
A  world  of  fluent  change,  and  changeless  flow, 
And  infinite  suggestion  of  new  thoughts, 
Reflected  in  the  mirror  of  the  heart 
With  shifting  colours  and  dissolving  forms, 
From  dark  to  light  and  back  again  to  dark,  — 
A  world  of  many  meanings  but  no  words  : 
A  silent  world  was  Vera's  home. 

For  her 

The  hidden  doors  of  sound  were  shut  and  sealed. 
The  outer  portals,  delicate  as  shells, 
Suffused  with  faintest  rose  of  far-off  morn, 
Like  underglow  of  daybreak  in  the  sea, — 
The  ear-gates  of  the  garden  of  her  soul, 


Shaded  by  drooping  tendrils  of  brown  hair, 

Waited  in  vain  for  messengers  to  pass, 

And  thread  the  inner  paths  with  flying  feet. 

And  swiftly  knock  upon  the  inmost  doors, 

And  enter  in,  and  speak  the  mystic  word 

To  Vera,  sitting  there  alone  and  listening. 

But  through  those  gates  no  message  ever  came  : 

Only  with  eyes  did  she  behold  and  see,  — 

With  eyes  as  crystal-clear  and  bright  and  brown 

As  waters  of  a  woodland  river,  —  eyes 

That    questioned    so    they   almost   seemed    to 

speak, 

And  answered  so  they  almost  seemed  to  hear, — 
Only  with  silent  eyes  did  she  behold 
The  inarticulate  wonder  of  the  world. 

She  saw  the  great  wind  ranging  freely  down 

Interminable  archways  of  the  wood  ; 

And  tossing  boughs  and  bending  tree-tops  hailed 

His  coming:  but  no  sea-tuned  voice  of  pines, 

No  roaring  of  the  oaks,  no  silvery  song 

Of  poplars  or  of  birches,  followed  him: 

He  passed  ;  they  waved  their  arms  and  clapped 

their  hands ; 
But  all  was  still. 


The  torrents  from  the  hills 
Leaped  down  their  rocky  stairways,  like  wild 

steeds 

Breaking  the  yoke  and  shaking  manes  of  foam. 
The  lowland  brooks  coiled  smoothly  through 

the  fields, 

And  softly  spread  themselves  in  glistening  lakes 
Whose  ripples  merrily  danced  among  the  reeds. 
The  standing  waves  that  never  change  their 

place 

In  the  swift  rapids,  curled  upon  themselves, 
And  seemed  about  to  break  and  never  broke  ; 
And  all  the  wandering  waves  that  fill  the  sea 
Came  buffeting  in  along  the  stony  shore, 
And  plunging  in  along  the  level  sands, 
And  creeping  in   through  creeks  with  swirling 

tides 

And  eddies.     Yet  from  all  the  ceaseless  flow 
And  tumult  of  the  unresting  element 
Came  neither  shout  of  joy  nor  sob  of  grief, 
For  there  were  many  waters,  but  no  voice. 

Silent  the  actors  all  on  Nature's  stage 
Performed  their  parts  before  her  watchful  eyes, 
Coming  and  going,  making  war  and  love, 


Working  and  playing,  all  without  a  sound. 
The  oxen  drew  their  load  with  swaying  necks, 
The  kine  came  sauntering  home  along  the  lane, 
The  trooping  sheep  were  driven  from  field  to 

fold, 

In  mute  obedience.     Down  the  unseen  track 
The   hounds,   with    panting    sides    and   lolling 

tongues, 

Pursued  their  flying  prey  with  noiseless  haste. 
The  birds,  the  most  alive  of  living  things, 
The  quickest  to  respond  to  joy  and  fear, 
Found  mates,  and  built  their  nests,  and  reared 

their  young, 
And  waged    their   mimic   strifes,    and  flashed 

athwart 

Dark  avenues  of  shade  as  sparks  of  light, 
And  over  sunlit  field  as  spots  of  shade  ; 
They  swam  the  flood  of  air  like  tiny  ships 
Rising  and  falling  o'er  invisible  waves, 
And,  gathering  in  great  navies,  bore  away 
To  North  or  South,  without  a  note  of  song. 

All  these  were  Vera's  playmates,  and  she  loved 
To  watch  them,  wondering  oftentimes  how  well 
They  knew  their   parts,   and   how  the   drama 
moved 


So  swiftly,  smoothly  on  from  scene  to  scene 
Without     confusion.        But     she      sometimes 

dreamed 

There  must  oe  something  hidden  in  the  play 
Unknown  to  her,  an  utterance  of  life 
More   clear  than  action   and   more   deep  than 

looks. 

And  this  she  felt  most  surely  when  she  watched 
Her  human  comrades  and  the  throngs  of  men. 
They  met  and  parted  oft  with  moving  lips 
That  seemed  to  mean  far  more  than  she  could 

see. 

No  deed  of  anger  or  of  tenderness 
Could  bring  such  sudden  changes  to  the  face, 
Could  work  such  magical  effects  in  life, 
As  those  same  dumbly-moving  lips.     She  saw 
A  lover  bend  above  a  maid  beloved 
With  moving  lips,  and,  though  he  touched  her 

not, 
Her  cheeks  bloomed  roses  and  her  eyes  flashed 

light. 

She  saw  a  hater  stand  before  his  foe 
And  move  his  lips  ;  whereat  the  other  shrank 
As  if  he  had  been  smitten  on  the  mouth. 
She  saw  great  regiments  of  toiling  men 


33 


Marshalled  in  ranges  and  led  by  moving  lips. 
But  once  she  saw  a  sight  more  strange  than  all : 
A  crowd  of  people  sitting  charmed  and  still 
Around  a  little  company  of  men 
Who  touched  their  hands  in  measured,  rhyth 
mic  time 

To  curious  instruments  ;  a  woman  stood 
Among   them,   with   bright   eyes   and    heaving 

breast, 

And  lifted  up  her  face  and  moved  her  lips. 
Then  Vera  wondered  at  the  idle  play, 
But  when  she  looked  around,  she  saw  the  glow 
Of  deep  delight  on  every  face,  and  tears 
Of  tender  joy  in  many  eyes,  as  if 
Some  visitor  from  a  celestial  world 
Had  brought  glad  tidings.     But  to  her  alone 
No  angel  entered,  for  the  choir  of  sound 
Was  vacant  in  the  temple  of  her  soul. 
And  none  could  pass  the  gates  called  Beautiful. 

So  when,  by  vision  baffled  and  perplexed, 
She  saw  that  all  the  world  could  not  be  seen, 
And  knew  she  could  not  know  the  whole  of  life 
Unless  the  hidden  gates  should  be  unsealed, 
She  felt  imprisoned.     In  her  heart  there  grew 


34 


The  bitter  creeping  plant  of  discontent, 
The  plant  that  only  grows  in  prison  soil, 
Whose  root  is  hunger  and  whose  fruit  is  pain. 
The  springs  of  still  delight  and  tranquil  joy 
Were  drained  as  dry  as  desert  dust  to  feed 
That  never-flowering  vine,  whose  tendrils  clung 
With    strangling  touch  round   every  bloom  of 

life 

And  made  it  wither.     Vera  could  not  rest 
Within  the  limits  of  her  silent  world  ; 
Along  its  spoiled  and  desolate  paths  she  roamed 
A  captive,  looking  everywhere  for  rescue. 

In  those  long  distant  days,  and  in  that  land 
Remote,  there  lived  a  Master  wonderful, 
Who  knew  the  secret  of  all  life,  and  could, 
With  gentle  touches  and  with  potent  words, 
Open  all  gates  that  ever  had  been  sealed, 
And  loose  all  weary  prisoners  that  were  bound. 
Obscure  he  dwelt,  not  in  the  wilderness, 
But  in  a  hut  among  the  throngs  of  men, 
Concealed  by  meekness  and  simplicity. 
And  ever  as  he  walked  the  city  streets, 
Or  sat  in  quietude  beside  the  sea, 
Or  trod  the  hillsides  and  the  harvest  fields, 


35 


The  multitude  passed  by  and  knew  him  not. 
But  there  were  some  who  knew,  and  turned  to 

him 

For  help ;  and  unto  all  who  asked,  he  gave. 
Thus  Vera  came,  and  found  him  in  the  field, 
And  knew  him  by  the  pity  in  his  face. 
She  knelt  to  him  and  held  him  by  one  hand, 
And  laid  the  other  hand  upon  her  lips 
In  mute  entreaty.     Then  she  lifted  up 
The  coils  of  hair  that  hung  about  her  neck 
And  bared  the  beauty  of  the  gates  of  sound,  — 
Those  virgin  gates  through  which  no  voice  had 

passed, — 

She  made  them  bare  before  the  Master's  sight, 
And  looked  into  the  kindness  of  his  face 
With  eyes  that  spoke  of  all  her  prisoned  pain, 
And  told  her  great  desire  without  a  word. 

The  Master  waited  long  in  silent  thought, 

Like  one  reluctant  to  bestow  a  gift, 

Not  for  the  sake  of  holding  back  the  thing 

Entreated,  but  because  he  surely  knew 

Of  something  better  that  he  fain  would  give 

If  only  she  would  ask  it.     Then  he  stooped 

To  Vera,  smiling,  touched  her  ears  and  spoke : 


"  Open,  fair  gates,  and  you,  reluctant  doors, 
Within  the  ivory  labyrinth  of  the  ear, 
Let  fall  the  bar  of  silence  and  unfold ! 
Enter,  you  voices  of  all  living  things, 
Enter  the  garden  sealed,  — but  softly,  slowly, 
Not  with  a  noise  confused  and  broken  tumult,— 
Come  in  an  order  sweet  as  I  command  you, 
And    bring    the     double    gift    of    speech    and 
hearing." 

Vera  began  to  hear.     And  first  the  wind 

Breathed  a  low  prelude  of  the  birth  of  sound, 

As  if  an  organ  far  away  were  touched 

By  unseen  fingers  ;  then  the  little  stream 

That  hurried  down  the  hillside,  swept  the  harp 

Of  music  into  merry,  tinkling  notes  : 

And  then  the  lark  that  poised  above  her  head 

On  wings  a-quiver,  overflowed  the  air 

With  showers  of  song.     Thus,  one  by  one,  the 

tones 

Of  all  things  living,  in  an  order  sweet, 
Without  confusion  and  with  deepening  power, 
Entered  the  garden  sealed.     And  last  of  all 
The  Master's  voice,  the  human  voice  divine, 
Passed  through  the  gates  and  called  her  by  her 

name, 
And  Vera  heard. 


37 


II 

What  rapture  of  new  life 
Must  come  to  one  for  whom  a  silent  world 
Is  suddenly  made  vocal,  and  whose  heart 
By  the  same  magic  is  awaked  at  once, 
Without  the  learner's  toil  and  long  delay, 
Out  of  a  night  of  dumbly  moving  dreams, 
Into  a  day  that  overflows  with  music  ! 
This  joy  was  Vera's  ;  and  to  her  it  seemed 
As  if  a  new  creative  morn  had  risen 
Upon  the  earth,  and  after  the  full  week 
When  living  things  unfolded  silently, 
And  after  the  long,  quiet  Sabbath  day 
When  all  was  still,  another  week  had  dawned, 
And  through  the  calm  expectancy  of  heaven 
A  secret  voice  had  said,  "  Let  all  things  speak." 
The  world  responded  with  an  instant  joy  ; 
And  the  untrodden  avenues  of  sound 
Were  thronged  with  varying  forms  of  viewless 
life. 

To  every  living  thing  a  voice  was  given 
Distinct  and  personal.     The  forest  trees 
Were  not  more  diverse  in  their  shades  of  green 
Than  in  their  tones  of  speech ;  and  every  bird 


That  nested  in  their  branches  had  a  song 

Unknown  to  other  birds  and  all  his  own. 

The  waters  spoke  a  hundred  dialects 

Of  one  great  language  ;  now  with  pattering  fall 

Of  raindrops  on  the  glistening  leaves,  and  now 

With  steady  roar  of  rivers  rushing  down 

To  meet  the  sea,  and  now  with  rhythmic  throb 

And  measured  tumult  of  tempestuous  waves, 

And  now  with  lingering  lisp  of  creeping  tides,  — 

The  manifold  discourse  of  many  waters. 

But  most  of  all  the  human  voice  was  full 

Of  infinite  variety,  and  ranged 

Along  the  scale  of  life's  experience 

With  changing  tones,  and  notes  both  sweet  and 

sad, 

All  fitted  to  express  some  unseen  thought, 
Some  vital  motion  of  the  hidden  heart. 
So  Vera  listened  with  her  new-born  sense, 
To  all  the  messengers  that  passed  the  gates, 
In  measureless  delight  and  utter  trust, 
Believing  that  they  brought  a  true  report 
From  every  living  thing  of  its  true  life, 
And  hoping  that  at  last  they  would  make  cleai 
The  meaning  and  the  mystery  of  the  world. 


But  soon  there  came  a  trouble  in  her  joy, 
A  cloud  of  doubt  across  her  sky  of  trust, 
A  note  discordant  that  dissolved  the  chord 
And  broke  the  bliss  of  hearing  into  pain. 
Not  from  the  harsher  sounds  and  voices  wild 
Of  anger  and  of  anguish,  that  reveal 
The  secret  strife  in  nature,  and  confess 
The  touch  of  sorrow  on  the  heart  of  life, — 
From  these  her  trouble  came  not.   For  in  these. 
However  sad,  she  felt  the  note  of  truth, 
And  truth,  though  sad,  is  always  musical. 
The  raging  of  the  tempest-ridden  sea, 
The  crash  of  thunder,  and  the  hollow  moan 
Of  winds    complaining    round    the    mountain- 
crags  ; 

The  shrill  and  quavering  cry  of  birds  of  prey, 
The  fiercer  voice  of  conflict-loving  beasts,  — 
All  these  wild  sounds  are  potent  in  their  place 
Within  life's  mighty  symphony  ;  the  charm 
Of  truth  attunes  them,  and  the  hearing  ear 
Finds  pleasure  in  their  rude  sincerity. 
Even  the  broken  and  tumultuous  noise 
That  rises  from  great  cities,  where  the  heart 
Of  human  toil  is  beating  heavily 
With  ceaseless  murmurs  of  the  labouring  pulse, 


40 


Is  not  a  discord ;  for  it  speaks  to  life 
Of  life  unfeigned,  and  full  of  hopes  and  fears, 
And  touched  through  all  the  trouble  of  its  notes 
With  something  real  and  therefore  glorious. 

Only  one  voice  of  all  that  sound  on  earth,  — 
One  voice  alone  is  utterly  discordant, 
And  hateful  to  the  soul,  and  full  of  pain,  — 
The  voice  of  falsehood.    And  when  Vera  heard 
This  mocking  voice,  and  knew  that  it  was  false  ; 
When  first  she   learned  that  human  lips  can 

speak 

The  thing  that  is  not,  and  betray  the  ear 
Of  simple  trust  with  treachery  of  words; 
The  joy  of  hearing  withered  in  her  heart. 
For  now  she  felt  that  faithless  messengers 
Could  pass  the  open  and  unguarded  gates 
Of  sound,  and  bring  a  message  all  untrue, 
Or  half  a  truth  that  makes  the  deadliest  lie, 
Or  idle  babble,  neither  false  nor  true, 
But  hollow  to  the  heart,  and  meaningless. 
She  heard  the  flattering  voices  of  deceit, 
That  mask  the  hidden  purposes  of  men 
With  fair  attire  of  favourable  words, 
And  hide  the  evil  in  the  guise  of  good. 


The  voices  vain  and  decorous  and  smooth, 
That  fill  the  world  with  empty-hearted  talk 
And  pass  a  worthless  coin  for  gold,  she  heard. 
The  foolish  voices,  wandering  and  confused, 
That  cannot  clearly  speak  the  thing  they  would, 
But  ramble  blindly  round  their  true  intent 
And  tangle  sense  in  hopeless  coils  of  sound,  — 
All  these  she  heard,  and  with  a  sad  mistrust 
Began  to  doubt  the  value  of  her  gift. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  world,  the  living  world, 
Sincere,  and  deep,  and  real,  were  still  concealed. 
Shut  out  by  secret  gates  not  yet  unclosed, 
And  she,  within  the  prison  of  her  soul, 
Still  waiting  silently  to  hear  the  voice 
Of  perfect  knowledge  and  of  perfect  peace. 

So  with  the  burden  of  her  discontent 
She  turned  to  seek  the  Master  once  again, 
And  found  him  sitting  in  the  market-place, 
Alone  among  the  careless  crowds  of  men, 
Half-hidden  in  the  shadow  of  a  porch 
And  looking  out  with  patient  peaceful  eyes 
On  the  confusions  of  the  noisy  throng, 
As  one  who  sits  beside  a  whirling  stream 
And  watches  it  serenely :  for  he  knows 


The  meaning  of  the  tide,  and  whence  it  comes, 
And  where  it  flows. 

Then  Vera  spoke  to  him: 
"Thy  gift  was   great,   dear   Master,    and    my 

heart 
Has  thanked   thee   many  times    for  that  first 

touch 

That  made  the  bar  of  silence  fall,  and  let 
The  voices  of  all  living  things  pass  through 
The  gates  of  hearing  to  my  prisoned  soul. 
But  I  have  learned  that  hearing  is  not  all 
I  need  to  make  me  understand  the  world. 
For  underneath  the  speech  of  men,  there  flows 
Another  current  of  their  hidden  thoughts. 
The  messengers  of  sound  have  not  revealed 
Life's  secret  to  my  heart ;  for  oftentimes 
They  bring  a  false  report,  in  treachery ; 
And  oftentimes  with  vague  and  empty  words 
They  mock  my  longing  to  receive  the  truth. 
Behind  the  mask  of  language  I  perceive 
The  eyes  of  things  unuttered  ;  and  I  feel 
The  throbbing  of  the  real  heart  of  the  world 
Beneath  the  robe  of  words.     Touch  me  again, 
Dear  Master,  with  thy  liberating  hand, 
And  free  me  from  the  bondage  of  deceit. 


43 


Open  another  gate,  and  let  me  hear, 
Without  confusion  and  with  clearer  sense, 
The  hidden  thoughts  and  purposes  of  men  , 
For  only  thus  my  heart  shall  be  at  rest, 
And  only  thus,  at  last,  I  shall  perceive 
The  meaning  and  the  mystery  of  the  world." 

The  Master's  face  was  turned  away  from  her; 
His  eyes  looked  far  away,  as  if  he  saw 
Something  beyond  her  sight ;  and  yet  she  knew 
That  he  was  listening  ;  for  her  pleading  voice 
No  sooner  ceased  than  he  put  forth  his  hand 
To  touch  her  brow,  and  very  gently  spoke, 
With  face  averted,  and  with  lingering  words  : 
"  Thou  seekest  for  thyself  a  wondrous  gift, — 
The  opening  of  the  second  gate, —  a  gift 
That  many  wise  men  have  desired  in  vain,  — 
But  some  have  found  it,  —  whether  well  or  ill 
For  their  own   peace,  they  have   attained  the 

power 

To  hear  unspoken  thoughts  of  other  men. 
And   thou  hast  begged  this  gift?    Thou  shall 

receive, — 

Not  knowing  what  thou  seekest, —  it  is  thine  : 
The  second  gate  is  open !     Thou  shalt  hear 


44 


All  that  men  feel  within  their  hidden  hearts : 
All  thoughts  that  move  behind  the  veil  of  words 
Thou  shalt  perceive  as  clear  as  if  they  spoke. 
The  gift  is  granted,  daughter,  go  thy  way! 
But  if  thou  findest  sorrow  on  this  path, 
Come  back  again,  —  there  is  a  path  to  peace." 


Ill 

Beyond  our  power  of  vision,  poets  say, 
There  is  another  world  of  forms  unseen, 
Yet  visible  to  purer  eyes  than  ours. 
And  if  the  crystal  of  our  sight  were  clear, 
We  should  behold  the  mountain-slopes  of  cloud, 
The  moving  meadows  of  the  untilled  sea, 
The  groves  of  twilight  and  the  dales  of  dawn, 
And  every  wide  and  lonely  field  of  air, 
More  populous  than  cities,  crowded  close 
With  living  creatures  of  all  shapes  and  hues. 
But  if  that  sight  were  ours,  the  things  that  now 
Engage  our  eyes  would  seem  but  dull  and  dim 
Beside  the  splendours  of  our  new-found  world, 
And  we  should  be  amazed  and  overwhelmed 
Not  knowing  how  to  use  the  plenitude 
Of  vision.     So  in  Vera's  soul,  at  first, 
The  opening  of  the  second  gate  of  sound 
Let  in  confusion  like  a  dizzying  flood. 
The  tumult  of  a  myriad-throated  mob  ; 
The  trampling  of  an  army  through  a  place 
Where    echoes    hide  ;    the    sudden,    clanging 

flight 

Of  an  innumerable  flock  of  birds 
Along  the  highway  of  the  midnight  sky; 


The  many-whispered  rustling  of  the  reeds 
Beneath  the  footsteps  of  a  thousand  winds  ; 
The  long-drawn,  inarticulate,  wailing  cry 
Of  million-pebbled  beaches  when  the  scourge 
Of  white-lashed  waves  is  curled  across  their 

back, — 

All  these  seemed  less  bewildering  than  to  hear 
What    now    she    heard    at    once :    the    tangled 

sound 

Of  all  that  moves  within  the  minds  of  men. 
For  now  there  was  no  measured  flow  of  words 
To  mark  the  time  ;  nor  any  key  of  speech, 
Though  false,  to  bring  a  seeming  harmony 
Into  the  sound  ;    nor  any  interval 
Of  silence  to  repose  the  listening  ear. 
But  through  the  dead  of  night,  and  through  the 

calm 

Of  weary  noon-tide,  through  the  solemn  hush 
That  fills  the  temple  in  the  pause  of  praise, 
And  through  the  breathless  awe   in  rooms  of 

death, 

She  heard  the  ceaseless  motion  and  the  stir 
Of  never-silent  hearts,  that  fill  the  world 
With  interwoven  thoughts  of  good  and  ill, 
With  mingled  music  of  delight  and  grief, 


47 


With  songs  of  love,  and  bitter  cries  of  hate, 
With  hymns  of  faith,  and  dirges  of  despair, 
And  murmurs  deeper  and  more  vague  than 

all,— 
Thoughts   that    are   born   and   die    without   a 

name, 

Or  rather,  never  die,  but  haunt  the  soul, 
With  sad  persistence,  till  a  name  is  given. 
These  Vera  heard,  at  first  with  heart  perplexed 
And  half-benumbed  by  the  disordered  sound. 
But  soon  a  clearer  sense  began  to  pierce 
The  cloudy  turmoil  with  discerning  power. 
She    learned    to   know   the    tones   of    human 

thought 

As  plainly  as  she  knew  the  tones  of  speech. 
She  could  divide  the  evil  from  the  good, 
Interpreting  the  language  of  the  mind, 
And  tracing  every  feeling  like  a  thread 
Through    all    the    mystic   web    that    passion 

weaves 

From  heart  to  heart  around  the  living  world. 
Then,  —  when  at  last  the  Master's  second  gift 
Was  perfected  within  her,  and  she  heard 
And  understood  the  secret  thoughts  of  men,  — 
Then  sadness  fell  upon  her,  and  the  weight 


48 


Of  an  intolerable  knowledge  pressed  her  down 
With  weary  wishes  to  know  more,  or  less. 
For  all  she  knew  was  like  a  broken  word 
Inscribed  upon  the  fragment  of  a  ring ; 
And  all  she  heard  was  like  a  troubled  strain 
Preluding  music  that  is  never  played. 

Then  she  remembered  in  her  sad  unrest, 

The    Master's    parting    word, —  "a    path    to 

peace,"  — 

And  turned  again  to  seek  him  with  her  grief. 
She  found  him  in  a  hollow  of  the  hills 
Beside  a  little  spring  that  issued  forth 
From  broken  rocks  and  filled  an  emerald  cup 
With  never-failing  water.     There  he  sat, 
With  waiting  looks  that  welcomed  her  afar, 
And  smiling  lips  that  gently  bade  her  speak. 
"  I  know  that  thou  hast  heard,  my  child,"  he 

said, 

"For  all  the  wonder  of  the  world  of  sound 
Is  written  in  thy  face.     But  hast  thou  heard, 
Among  the  many  voices,  one  of  peace  ? 
And  is  thy  heart  that  hears  the  secret  thoughts, 
The  hidden  wishes  and  desires  of  men, 
Content  with  hearing  ?  Art  thou  satisfied  ?  " 


49 


•'Nay,   Master,"    she  replied,   "  thou   knowest 

well 

That  I  am  not  at  rest,  nor  have  I  heard 
The  voice  of  perfect  peace.     For  all  I  hear 
Brings  me  disquiet  and  a  troubled  mind. 
The  evil  voices  in  the  souls  of  men, 
Voices  of  rage  and  cruelty  and  fear 
Have  not  dismayed  me  ;   for  I  have  perceived 
The  voices  of  the  good,  the  kind,  the  true 
Are  more  in  number  and  excel  in  strength. 
There  is  more  love  than  hate,  more  hope  than 

fear, 

In  the  mixed  murmur  of  the  human  heart. 
But  while  I  listen  to  the  mighty  sound, 
One  thing  torments  me,  and  destroys  my  rest 
And  presses  me  with  dull,  unceasing  pain. 
For  out  of  all  the  minds  of  all  mankind, 
And  through  all  voices  of  unuttered  thought, 
There  rises  evermore  a  questioning  voice 
That    asks    the    meaning   of   this   widespread 

world 

And  finds  no  answer,  —  asks,  and  asks  again, 
With  patient  pleading  or  with  wild  complaint, 
But  wakens  no  response,  except  the  sound 
Of  other  questions,  wandering  to  and  fro, 


From    other    souls    in    doubt.      And    this    one 

voice 

Rises  above  all  others  that  I  hear, 
And  binds  them  up  together  into  one, 
Until  the  mingled  murmur  of  the  world 
Sounds  through  the  secret  places  of  my  heart 
Like  an  eternal  question,  vainly  asked, 
By  every  human  soul  that  thinks  and  feels, 
And  vainly  echoed  back,  without  reply. 
This  is  the  heaviness  that  weighs  me  down, 
And  this  the  pain  that  will  not  let  me  rest. 
Therefore,  dear  Master,  shut  the  gates  again, 
And  let  me  live  in  silence  as  before  ! 
Or  else,  —  and  if  there  is  indeed  a  gate 
Unopened  yet,  through  which  I  might  receive 
An  answer  in  the  voice  of  perfect  peace  —  " 

She  ceased  ;    and  in  her  upward  faltering  tone 
The  question  echoed. 

Then  the  Master  said: 
"  There  is  another  gate,  not  yet  unclosed. 
For  through  the  outer  portals  of  the  ear 
Only  the  outer  voice  of  things  may  pass  ; 
And  through  the  middle  doorways  of  the  mind 
Only  the  half-formed  voice  of  human  thoughts, 


Uncertain  and  perplexed  with  endless  doubt; 
But  through  the  inmost  gate  the  spirit  hears 
The  voice  of  that  great  Spirit  who  is  Life. 
Beneath  the  tones  of  living  things,  He  breathes 
A  deeper  tone  than  ever  ear  hath  heard  ; 
And  underneath  the  troubled  thoughts  of  men, 
He  thinks  forever,  and  His  thought  is  peace. 
Behold,  I  touch  thee  once  again,  my  child  : 
The  third  and  last  of  those  three  hidden  gates 
That  closed  around  thy  soul  and  shut  thee  in, 
Falls  open  now,  and  thou  shalt  truly  hear." 

Then  Vera  heard.     The  spiritual  gate 
Was  opened  softly  as  a  full-blown  flower 
Unfolds  its  heart  to  welcome  in  the  dawn, 
And  on  her  listening  face  there  shone  a  light 
Of  still  amazement  and  completed  joy 
In  the  full  gift  of  hearing. 

What  she  heard 

I  cannot  tell ;  nor  could  she  ever  tell 
In  words  ;  because  all  human  words  are  vain  ; 
There  is  no  speech  nor  language  to  express 
The  secret  messages  of  God,  that  make 
Perpetual  music  in  the  hearing  heart. 
Below  the  voice  of  waters,  and  above 


The  wandering  voice  of  winds,  and  underneath 
The    song  of   birds,  and   through  all   varying 

tones 

Of  living  things  that  fill  the  world  with  sound, 
God  spoke  to  her,  and  all  she  heard  was  peace. 

So  when  the  Master  questioned,  "Dost  thou 

hear?" 
She   answered,    "  Yea,   at  last  I   hear."      And 

then 

He  asked  her  once  again,  "  What  hearest  thou  ? 
What  means  the  voice  of  Life  ?  "    She  answered, 

"  Love  ! 

For  love  is  life,  and  they  who  do  not  love 
Are  not  alive.  But  every  soul  that  loves, 
Lives  in  the  heart  of  God  and  hears  Him 

speak." 


53 


ANOTHER  CHANCE 

A   LYRIC 

FROM    LIFE'S    MONODRAMA 


55 


ANOTHER  CHANCE 

/~*OME,  give  me  back  my  life  again,  you  heavy  - 

handed  Death  ! 
Uncrook  your  fingers  from  my  throat,  and  let 

me  draw  my  breath. 
You  do  me  wrong  to  take  me  now  —  too  soon 

for  me  to  die  — 
Ah,  loose  me  from  this  clutching  pain,  and  hear 

the  reason  why. 

I  know  I  've  had  my  forty  years,  and  wasted 

every  one  ; 

And  yet,  I  tell  you  honestly,  my  life  is  not  begun  ; 
I  've  walked  the  world  like  one  asleep,  a  dreamer 

in  a  trance ; 
But  now  you  've  gripped  me   wide   awake  —  I 

want  another  chance. 

My  dreams  were  always  beautiful,  my  thoughts 

were  high  and  fine  ; 
No  life  was  ever  lived  on  earth  to  match  those 

dreams  of  mine. 
And  would  you  wreck  them  unfulfilled?     What 

folly,  nay,  what  crime  ! 
You  rob  the  world,  you  waste  a  soul  —  give  me 

a  little  time. 


57 


You  '11  hear  me  ?     Yes,  I  'm  sure  you  will,  my 

hope  is  not  in  vain : 
I  feel  the  even  pulse  of  peace,  the  sweet  relief 

from  pain  ; 
The  black  fog  rolls  away  from  me  ;   I  'm   free 

once  more  to  plan  : 
Another  chance  is  all  I  need  to  prove  myself  a 

man. 

The  world  is  full  of  warfare  'twixt  the  evil  and 
the  good  ; 

I  watched  the  battle  from  afar  as  one  that 
understood 

The  shouting  and  confusion,  the  bloody,  blun 
dering  fight  — 

How  few  there  are  that  see  it  clear,  how  few 
that  wage  it  right ! 

The  captains  flushed  with  foolish  pride,  the  sol 
diers  pale  with  fear, 

The  faltering  flags,  the  feeble  fire  from  ranks 
that  swerve  and  veer, 

The  wild  mistakes,  the  dismal  doubts,  the  cow 
ard  hearts  that  flee  — 

The  good  cause  needs  a  nobler  knight  to  win  the 
victory. 


A  man  whose  soul  is  pure  and  strong,  whose 

sword  is  bright  and  keen, 
Who  knows  the  splendour  of  the  fight  and  what 

its  issues  mean  ; 
Who   never   takes   one   step   aside,   nor   halts, 

though  hope  be  dim, 
But  cleaves  a  pathway  thro'  the  strife,  and  bids 

men  follow  him. 

No  blot  upon  his  stainless  shield,  no  weakness 

in  his  arm  ; 
No  sign  of  trembling  in  his  face  to  break  his 

valor's  charm  : 
One  man  like  this  could  stay  the  flight  and  lead 

the  wavering  line  ; 
Ah,  give  me  but  a  year  of  life  —  I  '11  make  that 

glory  mine  ! 

Religion?  Yes,  I  know  it  well  ;  I  've  heard  its 
prayers  and  creeds. 

And  seen  men  put  them  all  to  shame  with  poor, 
half-hearted  deeds. 

They  follow  Christ,  but  far  away  ;  they  wander 
and  they  doubt. 

I  '11  serve  him  in  a  better  way,  and  live  his  pre 
cepts  out. 


59 


You  see,  I  've  waited  just  for  this ;  I  could  not 
be  content 

To  own  a  feeble,  faltering  faith  with  human 
weakness  blent. 

Too  many  runners  in  the  race  move  slowly, 
stumble,  fall ; 

But  I  will  run  so  straight  and  swift  I  shall  out 
strip  them  all. 

Oh,  think  what  it  will  mean  to  men,  amid  their 

foolish  strife, 
To  see  the  clear,  unshadowed  light  of  one  true 

Christian  life, 
Without  a  touch  of  selfishness,  without  a  taint 

of  sin,  — 
With  one  short  month  of  such  a  life  a  new  world 

would  begin ! 

And  love!  —  I  often  dream  of  that — the  treasure 

of  the  earth ; 
How  little  they  who  use  the  coin  have  realized 

its  worth ! 
'T  will  pay  all  debts,  enrich  all  hearts,  and  make 

all  joys  secure. 
But  love,  to  do  its  perfect  work,  must  be  sincere 

and  pure. 


60 


My  heart  is  full  of  virgin  gold.     I  '11  pour  it  out 

and  spend 
My  hidden  wealth,  with  lavish  hand,  on  all  who 

call  me  friend. 
Not  one  shall  miss  the  kindly  deed,  the  largess 

of  relief, 
The  generous  fellowship  of  joy,  the  sympathy 

of  grief. 

I  '11  say  the  loyal,  helpful  things  that  make  life 

sweet  and  fair, 
I  '11  pay  the  gratitude  I  owe  for  human  love  and 

care. 
Perhaps  I  've  been  at  fault  sometimes — I  '11  ask 

to  be  forgiven, 
And  make  this  very  room  of  mine  seem  like  a 

little  heaven. 

For  one  by  one  I  '11  call  my  friends  to  stand  be 
side  my  bed  ; 

I  '11  speak  the  true  and  tender  words  that  I  have 
left  unsaid  ; 

And  every  heart  shall  throb  and  glow,  all  cold 
ness  melt  away 

Around  my  altar-fire  of  love  —  ah,  give  me  but 
one  day ! 


Ci 


What 's  that  ?       I  've    had    another    day,    and 

wasted  it  again  ? 
A  priceless    day,  in   empty   dreams,  —  another 

chance  in  vain  ? 
Thou  fool  —  this  night  —  it's   very   dark  —  the 

last  —  this  choking  breath  — 
One  prayer — have  mercy  on  a  dreamer's  soul 

—  God,  this  is  death. 


SEVEN    SMALL   SONGS 
IN    DIFFERENT   KEYS 


THE  ANGLER'S  REVEILLE 

"IXTHAT  time  the  rose  of  dawn  is  laid  across 

the  lips  of  night, 
And  all  the  drowsy  little  stars  have  fallen  asleep 

in  light ; 
'T  is  then  a  wandering  wind  awakes,  and  runs 

from  tree  to  tree, 
And  borrows  words  from  all  the  birds  to  sound 

the  reveille. 

This  is  the  carol  the  Robin  throws 
Over  the  edge  of  the  valley ; 

Listen  how  boldly  it  flows, 
Sally  on  sally  : 

Tirra-lirra, 
Down  the  river, 
Laughing  water 
All  a-quruer. 
Day  is  near, 
Clear,  dear. 
Fish  are  breaking, 
Time  for  waking. 
Tup,  tup,  tup  ! 
'Do  you  hear  ? 
All  dear— 
Wake  up  1 


6.5 


The  phantom  flood  of  dreams  has  ebbed  and 

vanished  with  the  dark, 
And  like  a  dove  the  heart  forsakes  the  prison 

of  the  ark  ; 
Now   forth   she    fares  through  friendly  woods 

and  diamond-fields  of  dew, 
While  every  voice  cries  out  "  Rejoice  !  "  as  if 

the  world  were  new. 

This  is  the  ballad  the  Bluebird  sings, 

Unto  his  mate  replying, 
Shaking  the  tune  from  his  wings 

While  he  is  flying  : 

Surely,  surely,  surely, 

Life  is  dear 

Even  here. 

Blue  above, 

You  to  love, 
^Purely,  purely,  purely. 


There  *s  wild  azalea  on  the  hill,  and  roses  down 
the  dell, 

And  just  one  spray  of  lilac  still  abloom  beside 
the  well  ; 

The  columbine  adorns  the  rocks,  the  laurel  buds 
grow  pink, 

Along  the  stream  white  arums  gleam,  and  vio 
lets  bend  to  drink 

This  is  the  song  of  the  Yellowthroat, 
Fluttering  gaily  beside  you  ; 

Hear  how  each  voluble  note 
Offers  to  guide  you  : 

Which  <way,  sir  ? 
I  say,  sir, 
Let  me  teach  you, 
I  beseech  you  I 
Are  you  wishing 
Jolly  fishing  ? 
This  <way,  sir  I 
I ''II  teach  you. 


Then  come,  my  friend,   forget  your  foes,  and 

leave  your  fears  behind, 
And  wander  forth  to  try  your  luck,  with  cheer- 

ful,  quiet  mind  ; 
For  be  your  fortune  great  or  small,  you  '11  take 

what  God  may  give, 
And  all  the  day  your  heart  shall  say,  "  'T  is  luck 

enough  to  live." 

This  is  the  song  the  Brown  Thrush  flings 

Out  of  his  thicket  of  roses  ; 
Hark  how  it  warbles  and  rings, 

Mark  how  it  closes  : 

Lack,  luck, 
Wat  lack? 
Good  enough  for  me  I 
I'm  alive,  you  see. 
Sun  shining, 
No  repining  ; 
Never  borrow 
Idle  sorrow  ; 
Thvp  it  I 
Cover  ft  up  I 
Hold  your  cup  I 
Joy  will  fill  it, 
Don't  spill  it, 
Steady,  be  readyf 
Good  luck  I 


68 


A  BIT  OF  GOOD  LUCK 

<*- 

MAY  4th,  1898.  —  To-day,  fishing  down  the  Swifiwaier,  1 

found  Joseph  Jefferson  on  a.  big  rock  in  the  middle  of  the  brook, 

casting  the  fly  for  trout.    He  said  he  hud  fished  this  very 

stream  three-and-forty  years  ago.  Leaf  from  my  Diary. 

<+' 

TT7E  met  on  Nature's  stage, 

And  May  had  set  the  scene, 
With  bishop-caps  standing  in  delicate  ranks, 
And  violets  blossoming  over  the  banks. 
While  the  brook  ran  full  between. 

The  waters  rang  your  call, 

With  frolicsome  waves  a-twinkle,  — 
They  'd  known  you  as  boy,  and  they  knew  you 

as  man, 
And  every  wave,  as  it  merrily  ran, 

Cried,  "  Enter  Rip  van  Winkle  I " 


69 


A  SLUMBER-SONG 

<•- 

FOR  THE  FISHERMAN'S  CHILD 

"PURL  your  sail,  my  little  boatie  ; 

Here  's  the  haven,  still  and  deep, 
Where  the  dreaming  tides,  in-streaming, 

Up  the  channel  creep. 
See,  the  sunset  breeze  is  dying; 
Hark,  the  plover,  landward  flying, 
Softly  down  the  twilight  crying  ; 

Come  to  anchor,  little  boatie, 
In  the  port  of  Sleep. 

Far  away,  my  little  boatie, 

Roaring  waves  are  white  with  foam 
Ships  are  striving,  onward  driving, 

Day  and  night  they  roam. 
Father  's  at  the  deep-sea  trawling, 
In  the  darkness,  rowing,  hauling, 
While  the  hungry  winds  are  calling,  — 
God  protect  him,  little  boatie, 
Bring  him  safely  home  ! 


Not  for  you,  my  little  boatie, 

Is  the  wide  and  weary  sea  ; 
You're  too  slender,  and  too  tender, 

You  must  rest  with  me. 
All  day  long  you  have  been  straying 
Up  and  down  the  shore  and  playing ; 
Come  to  port,  make  no  delaying ! 
Day  is  over,  little  boatie, 
Night  falls  suddenly. 

Furl  your  sail,  my  little  boatie, 

Fold  your  wings,  my  tired  dove. 
Dews  are  sprinkling,  stars  are  twinkling 

Drowsily  above. 

Cease  from  sailing,  cease  from  rowing ; 
Rock  upon  the  dream-tide,  knowing 
Safely  o'er  your  rest  are  glowing, 

All  the  night,  my  little  boatie, 
Harbour-lights  of  love. 


THE  ECHO  IN  THE  HEART 

IT'S  little  I  can  tell 

About  the  birds  in  books  ; 

And  yet  I  know  them  well, 

By  their  music  and  their  looks: 

When  May  comes  down  the  lane, 
Her  airy  lovers  throng 
To  welcome  her  with  song, 
And  follow  in  her  train  : 
Each  minstrel  weaves  his  part 
In  that  wild-flowery  strain, 
And  I  know  them  all  again 
By  their  echo  in  my  heart. 


73 


It  s  little  that  I  care 

About  my  darling's  place 

In  books  of  beauty  rare, 
Or  heraldries  of  race: 

For  when  she  steps  in  view, 
It  matters  not  to  me 
"What  her  sweet  type  may  be, 
Of  woman,  old  or  new. 
I  can't  explain  the  art ; 
But  I  know  her  for  my  own, 
Because  her  lightest  tone 
Wakes  an  echo  in  my  heart. 


74 


A  NOVEMBER  DAISY 

A  FTERTHOUGHT  of  summer's  bloom! 

Late  arrival  at  the  feast, 
Coming  when  the  songs  have  ceased 
And  the  merry  guests  departed, 
Leaving  but  an  empty  room, 
Silence,  solitude,  and  gloom ! 
Are  you  lonely,  heavy-hearted  ; 
You,  the  last  of  all  your  kind, 
Nodding  in  the  autumn  wind  ; 
Now  that  all  your  friends  are  flown, 
Blooming  late  and  all  alone  ? 

Nay,  I  wrong  you,  little  flower, 
Reading  mournful  mood  of  mine 
In  your  looks,  that  give  no  sign 
Of  a  spirit  dark  and  cheerless  : 
You  possess  the  heavenly  power 
That  rejoices  in  the  hour, 
Glad,  contented,  free,  and  fearless,— 
Lifts  a  sunny  face  to  heaven 
When  a  sunny  day  is  given  ; 
Makes  a  summer  of  its  own, 
Blooming  late  and  all  alone. 


75 


Once  the  daisies  gold  and  white 
Sea-like  through  the  meadows  rolled  : 
Once  my  heart  could  hardly  hold 
All  its  pleasures,  —  I  remember, 
In  the  flood  of  youth's  delight 
Separate  joys  were  lost  to  sight. 
That  was  summer  !     Now  November 
Sets  the  perfect  flower  apart ; 
Gives  each  blossom  of  the  heart 
Meaning,  beauty,  grace  unknown,  — 
Blooming  late  and  all  alone. 


THE  RIVER  OF  DREAMS 

T"*HE  river  of  dreams  runs  softly  down 

From  its  hidden  spring  in  the  forest  of  sleep, 
With  a  measureless  motion  calm  and  deep ; 

And  my  boat  slips  out  on  the  current  brown, 
In  a  tranquil  bay  where  the  trees  incline 
Far  over  the  waves,  and  creepers  twine 
Far  over  the  boughs,  as  if  to  steep 
Their  drowsy  blooms  in  the  stream,  that 

goes, 
By  a  secret  way  that  no  man  knows, 

Under  the  branches  bending, 

On  through  the  shadows  blending,  — 

While  the  body  rests,  and  the  passive  soul 
Is  drifted  along  to  an  unseen  goal, 

And  the  river  of  dreams  runs  down. 


77 


The  river  of  dreams  runs  smoothly  down, 
With  a  leisurely  tide  that  bears  my  bark 
Out  of  the  visionless  woods  of  dark, 

Into  a  world  where  day-beams  crown 
Valley  and  hill  with  light  from  far, 
Clearer  than  sun  or  moon  or  star. 
Luminous,  wonderful,  weird,  oh,  mark 
How  the  radiance  pulses  everywhere, 
Through  the  lucent  sky  and  the  shadowless 
air  ! 

Over  the  mountains  shimmering, 

Up  from  the  fountains  glimmering,  — 

'T  is  the  mystical  glow  of  the  inner  light, 
That  shines  in  the  very  noon  of  night, 

Where  the  river  of  dreams  runs  down. 


The  river  of  dreams  runs  murmuring  down, 
Through  the  fairest  garden  that  ever  grew ; 
And    I    catch,    as    my    boat    goes    drifting 
through, 

A  mingled  music  that  seems  to  drown 

The  river's  whisper,  and  charms  my  ear 
With  a  sound  I  have  often  longed  to  hear, — 
A  magical  harmony,  strange  and  new, 
A  wild-rose  ballad,  a  lilac-song, 
A  virginal  chant  from  the  lilies'  throng, 

Blue-bells  silverly  ringing, 

Pansies  merrily  singing,  — 

For  all  the  flowers  have  found  their  voice  ; 
And  I  feel  no  wonder,  but  only  rejoice, 

While  the  river  of  dreams  runs  down. 


The  river  of  dreams  runs  broadening  down, 
Away  from  the  peaceful  garden-shore, 
With  a  current  that  deepens  more  and  more, 

By  the  league-long  walls  of  a  mighty  town. 
I  see  the  hurrying  crowds  of  men 
Dissolve  like  clouds  and  gather  again, 
But  never  a  face  I  have  seen  before  ; 
For  they  come  and  go,  and  they  shift  and 

change, 

And  even  the  forms  and   the   dresses   are 
strange  : 

This  is  a  city  haunted, 

A  multitude  enchanted  ! 

At  the  sight  of  the  throng  I  am  dumb  with 

fear, 
For  never  a  sound  from  their  lips  I  hear, 

As  the  river  of  dreams  runs  down. 


80 


The  river  of  dreams  runs  wildly  down 
Into  the  heart  of  a  desolate  land, 
By  ruined  temples  half-buried  in  sand, 

Thro'  a  cleft  of  the  hills,  whose  black  brows 

frown 

Over  the  shuddering,  lonely  wave, 
While  the  air  grows  dim  with  the  dust  of 

the  grave. 

No  sign  of  life  on  the  dreary  strand  ; 
No  ray  of  light  on  the  mountain's  crest; 
And  a  weary  wind  that  cannot  rest 

Comes  down  the  valley  creeping, 

Lamenting,  wailing,  weeping,  — 

I  strive  to  cry  out,  but  my  fluttering  breath 
Is  choked  with  the  clinging  fog  of  death, 

While  the  river  of  dreams  runs  down. 


The  river  of  dreams  runs  swiftly  down, 
Out  of  the  valley  of  nameless  fear, 
Into  a  country  calm  and  clear, 

With  a  mystical  name  of  high  renown, — 
A  name  that  I  know,  but  may  not  tell,  — 
And  there  the  friends  that  I  loved  so  well 
The  long-lost  comrades,  forever  dear, 
Come  beckoning  down  to  the  river  shore, 
And  hail  my  boat  with  the  voice  of  yore. 

Fair  and  sweet  are  the  places 

Where  I  see  their  unchanged  faces ! 

And  I  feel  in  my  heart  with  a  secret  thrill 
That  the  loved  and  lost  are  living  still, 

While  the  river  of  dreams  runs  down. 


8a 


The  river  of  dreams  runs  silently  down 
By  a  secret  way  that  no  man  knows  ; 
But  the  soul  lives  on  while  the  dream-tide 

flows 
Through    the    gardens    bright,    or   the    forests 

brown ; 
And  I  think  sometimes  that  our  whole  life 

seems 

To  be  more  than  half  made  up  of  dreams. 
For   its    changing   sights,    and    its    passing 

shows, 
And   its   morning  hopes,  and   its  midnight 

fears, 

Are  left  behind  with  the  vanished  years. 
Onward,  with  ceaseless  motion, 
The  life-stream  flows  to  the  ocean,  — 

And  we  follow  the  tide,  awake  or  asleep, 
Till  we  see  the  dawn  on  Love's  great  deep, 
When    the    bar    at  the    harbour-mouth   is 

crossed, 
And  the  river  of  dreams  in  the  sea  is  lost. 


THE  RUBY-CROWNED  KINGLET 


•fXTHERE  'S  your  kingdom,  little  king? 

Where  's  the  land  you  call  your  own, 
Where 's  your  palace,  and  your  throne  ? 

Fluttering  lightly  on  the  wing 

Through  the  blossom-world  of  May, 
Whither  lies  your  royal  way  ? 
Where  's  the  realm  that  owns  your  sway, 
Little  king  ? 

Far  to  northward  lies  a  land, 
Where  the  trees  together  stand 
Closer  than  the  blades  of  wheat, 
When  the  summer  is  complete. 
Like  a  robe  the  forests  hide 
Lonely  "oale  and  mountain  side: 
Balsam,  hemlock,  spruce  and  pine,  — 
All  those  mighty  trees  are  mine. 
There's  a  river  flowing  free; 
All  its  waves  Belong  to  me. 
There 's  a  lake  so  clear  and  bright 
Stars  shine  out  of  it  all  night, 


And  the  rowan-berries  red 

Round  ft  like  a  girdle  spread. 

Feasting  plentiful  and  fine, 

Air  that  cheers  the  heart  like  wine, 

Royal  pleasures  by  the  score, 

Wait  for  me  in  Labrador 

There  I'll  build  my  dainty  nest ; 

There  I'll  fix  my  court  and  rest; 

There  from  dawn  to  dark  I  'II  sing  : 

Happy  kingdom  I    Lucky  king  I 


II 


Back  again,  my  little  king ! 
Is  your  happy  kingdom  lost 
To  that  rebel  knave,  Jack  Frost? 

Have  you  felt  the  snow-flakes  sting? 
Autumn  is  a  rude  disrober  : 
Houseless,  homeless  in  October, 
Whither  now?     Your  plight  is  sobe*, 
Exiled  king ! 

Far  to  southward  lie  the  regions 
Where  my  loyal  flower-legions 


86 


Hold  possession  of  the  year, 
Filling  every  month  with  cheer. 
Christmas  wakes  the  winter  rose; 
New  Year  daffodils  unclose; 
Yellow  jasmine  through  the  •woods 
Runs  in  March  with  golden  floods, 
^Dropping  from  the  tallest  trees 
Shining  streams  that  never  freeze. 
Thither  I  must  find  my  way. 
Fly  by  night  and  feed  by  day, 
Till  I  see  the  southern  moon 
Glistening  on  the  broad  lagoon, 
Where  the  cypress'  vivid  green, 
And  the  dark  magnolia's  sheen, 
Weave  a  shelter  round  my  home. 
There  the  snow-storms  never  come  : 
There  the  bannered  mosses  gray 
In  the  breezes  gently  sway, 
Hanging  low  on  every  side 
Round  the  covert  where  I  hide. 
There  I  hold  my  winter  court, 
Full  of  merriment  and  sport : 
There  I  take  my  ease  and  sing  : 
Happy  kingdom  !    Lucky  king  I 


67 


HI 

Little  boaster,  vagrant  king  ! 

Neither  north  nor  south  is  yours : 
You  've  no  kingdom  that  endures. 

Wandering  every  fall  and  spring, 
With  your  painted  crown  so  slender 
And  your  talk  of  royal  splendour 
Must  I  call  you  a  Pretender, 
Landless  king? 

Never  king  by  right  divine 
Ruled  a.  richer  realm,  than  mine  I 
What  are  lands  and  golden  crowns, 
Armies,  fortresses  and  towns, 
Jewels,  scepters f  robes  and  rings,  — 
What  are  these  to  song  and  wings  ? 
Everywhere  thai  I  can  fly, 
There  I  own  the  earth  and  sky  ; 
Everywhere  that  I  can  sing, 
There  I  'm  happy  as  a  king. 


88 


A     000  549  967 


